American Classic

What can I do for you,
Beautiful snag?
The still virginal tatters of
A promised gown
Stripped on a snare
At the river’s high-water mark.

The gem of the world could not
Hold you nor buy your wealth.

Even drowned,
You mix with the richest silts,
As the ghostly bellies of glaciers
Bump against you.

Your eyes are speckled with 10,000 lakes….
Each one no less deep than a soul….

And, like the rest of the
Country, you sell cars,
Because in this economy,
It’s your beauty’s worth.

by Robert Rorabeck

Comments (1)

I have friends in Quincy and they are ready to leave. I love the summers up there but you can keep the winters. This poem is very well done. I know you weren't drunk when you penned it. LOL